


the longest dream (a second life)

by theonsfavouritetoy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternative Timeline, Canon Divergence, Gift Fic, I fear it gets quite sappy, M/M, Redemption, Second Chance, love epiphany (kinda), magick, rebirth (also kinda), the ending is sad but also hopeful?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 03:04:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16864954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theonsfavouritetoy/pseuds/theonsfavouritetoy
Summary: “I can see a shadow by your side,” she says, her voice deep and grave. “A shadow wearing a crown of bronze and iron.”Theon shivers, resisting the urge to turn to his side, to look at the void where the sorceress sees a shadow.“His hand is resting on your shoulder,” she presses, “can’t you feel the weight?”He can, he’s felt it for years now, has felt it since he’d first set foot in the Northern lands. It had left him in the darkest time, he’d chased it away, when remembering it might have caused him as much pain as remembering his own name. But the shadow came back when he’d reclaimed his name.“It’s been a long time,” Theon mumbles, careful not to open his mouth too much as he speaks. “Long gone.”“Just because we have lost, it does not mean we are able to let go.”





	the longest dream (a second life)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lovefuckinglife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovefuckinglife/gifts).



> Here it is, the promised second gift to @lovefuckinglife - I hope you like it! Not so much fluff here, but alllll the angst.  
> It turned out a lot longer than I thought, a lot more complicated, and it is THROBB and I always fight myself there somehow...  
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> ATTENTION SPOILER  
> The ending, the Major character death, yeah it's T. But not really, you know?

It’s been at least a couple of hours since Yara left with the whore. A couple of hours staring into his almost empty tankard, head swimming, throat dry, tongue thick in his mouth. He needs to breathe. 

Theon gets up, swaying, hands clumsily grappling for the table’s edge to steady himself. He’s never steady anymore. He makes it outside, sinking against the still warm bricks of a nearby wall, taking deep, shaky breaths. 

Yara’s words are echoing in his head. Is he alive enough to be of any use for her? Is he alive enough to be of use for anything? Theon wants to be. 

“Having the will is half the way already walked.”

The voice is coming from the shadows filling a small, narrow close to his right. Too much liquor, Theon thinks as they start to swirl and slowly reveal the form of a figure. A woman, wearing a golden mask.

Her large, wet eyes are the only thing visible in her face. Theon is spellbound by their gaze, intense and dark, staring right into the depths of what is left of his soul. 

“I can see a shadow by your side,” she says, her voice deep and grave. “A shadow wearing a crown of bronze and iron.”

Theon shivers, resisting the urge to turn to his side, to look at the void where the sorceress sees a shadow. 

“His hand is resting on your shoulder,” she presses, “can’t you feel the weight?”

He can, he’s felt it for years now, has felt it since he’d first set foot in the Northern lands. It had left him in the darkest time, he’d chased it away, when remembering it might have caused him as much pain as remembering his own name. But the shadow came back when he’d reclaimed his name.

“It’s been a long time,” Theon mumbles, careful not to open his mouth too much as he speaks. “Long gone.”

“Just because we have lost, it does not mean we are able to let go.”

He hangs his head as low as it will go, burdened by the weight of loss and guilt.

“What is dead may never die, Theon Greyjoy.”

He looks up then, into her masked face. 

“Tell me, Theon.” Her voice drops to a nearly inaudible whisper. “Tell me. If you had the chance to save him… at the highest cost… would you do it?”

There’s no time passing between her question and his answer. 

“Yes.”

***

Her voice is still echoing in Theon’s mind the morrow after, once he wakes from restless dreams. Dreams about  _ him _ , painful and soft - painful and nothing else.

_ Hear the spell, Theon Greyjoy. They are three, and one after one you must resolve them to forestall your shadow’s doom. Three trials as befitting of a saviour. First. Find your worst enemy, face him, make him your ally. Second. Give what you never wanted to acknowledge you possess. Three. Pay the highest price. Your fears will be like stones in your path - overcome them, destroy them, and he will live. _

Theon opens his eyes unwillingly. Now, in the light of day seeping into his room, his encounter with this strange woman seems more like a vision, induced by the quantities of alcohol Yara has forced into him last night. He’s not used to strong liquor anymore, his pounding head a confirmation of the fact. 

Loud clamour outside has him sit up, and with a start Theon notices he’s not on the  _ Black Wind  _ anymore. It’s a tent, the canvases flapping in a breeze he can feel drifting in through a half-opened flap. Slowly he’s able to discern the voices outside, not Yara’s crew, not Ironborn accents. He freezes. Northern voices.

“Oi, Greyjoy!” a familiar voice exclaims outside and Theon scrambles back on his cot as the Greatjon’s big head peers in his tent. “Up with you, lad, your king requests your presence.”

“Now and always,” coos another man, one of those bloody Karstarks if Theon remembers correctly, “but I think he actually meant  _ now. _ ”

The canvas flaps and he’s alone again, still frozen in shock. Slowly, Theon lifts one hand to his face. Five fingers, long, calloused archer fingers. He bites his lip unintentionally, then does it again with purpose. Sharp, strong teeth. His other hand. His toes. His--

All of Theon’s attention flies to one spot, one part, his breath becomes ragged as he concentrates, feels it, feels himself. Whole. If he weren’t still sitting on his cot he’d fall to his knees, whispering prayers upon prayers of gratitude to any deity who may listen. 

“Theon?”

The cobwebs and the fog in Theon’s head clear in an instant at the call of his name, he surges up and to the entry where they meet, and Theon stops dead in his tracks as he looks upon the face that was lost so long ago and is now looking back at him with slight puzzlement. 

“Robb.” 

The name weighs heavy on his tongue, after years of not allowing himself to even think, let alone speak it out loud, it carries a lifetime’s worth of guilt, regret and pain. Robb’s brow twitches, his eyes wander over Theon’s face and Theon fleetingly wonders how he must look. 

“Oh good,” Robb says, a confused smile tugging on his lips, “you’ve stopped with the ‘Your Grace’ nonsense.”

He reaches out, hesitating only a fraction of a heartbeat before resting his hand on Theon’s arm, the warmth seeping through Theon’s clothes immediately. Theon doesn’t dare to breathe. 

Dream or vision - this feels too real to be either, and in this moment he simply accepts it. Robb is alive. He’s alive. They’re both here, together, and this is another chance. Theon looks into his king’s face and smiles. 

_ This time I won’t fail him. _

***

“You’ve been awfully quiet these days, Greyjoy.” 

Maege Mormont is looking at him with the same distrust as the rest of them, and contrary to before Theon wilts under her gaze, knowing all too well how deserved this distrust is - was. He shrugs. So far he’s not uttered a single word about his father, or ships for Robb. 

“Greyjoy…” Lord Glover’s thoughtful tone sends shivers of premonition down Theon’s spine. “Your family has ships, lad.”

No. No no no no.

Robb looks over at him questioningly, Lady Stark’s gaze is doubtful, the rest of them expectant. He won’t say it. He won’t offer to go. Not this time. Time slows down to a trickle. Theon sighs. 

“Yes, my father commands the Iron Fleet. But I really don’t think--”

“Good! You can go as your king’s envoy, get your father to join our cause and we’ll have ships to sail to King’s Landing.”

Theon swallows, mouth dry with fear. The decision to go is taken from him this time, but he’s in no doubt his father’s reaction will be just the same. He’ll mock Theon and throw Robb’s letter into the fire. He’ll attack the North. And Theon? This time he’ll have to warn Robb, get back to him. 

Theon’s gut coils so hard he clutches at his stomach in pain. Robb is watching him, brow furrowed, worry in his eyes. He looks tired of all of this, tired and jaded and exhausted. He clears his throat. 

“My lords, mother… would you leave me and Theon alone for a moment?”

They grumble at that, a lot, one or two snicker, and Lady Stark shoots Robb a meaningful glare as she disappears from the tent. They’re alone now, finally, for the first time since Theon’s woken up to this second life. 

It takes some getting used to, living in his old body again. He has to concentrate hard to walk like he did before, that easy, confident gait he had, not the careful setting of his feet he had to learn after… 

Every bite he eats, every time he takes a piss, every time he touches something is a moment of pleasure and gratitude. The first time he held a bow in his hand again was overwhelming. It’s still there, muscle memory telling him how to place an arrow, when to let go to hit a moving target. 

And Robb. Robb walking and talking and smiling, not dead, not yet. Not until he’s an old man if Theon has any say in the matter. And he’s trying. The easiest thing, he figures, is to find his worst enemy and make him an ally. At first he got the simplest possibility out of the way. 

He’d never admit to it, but he did send a letter north, to the Wall. Apologizing for his behaviour, just in case Snow can be considered his worst enemy. The bastard had replied, curt but polite. Nothing has changed, but then there are people out there who are more likely candidates for being Theon’s worst enemy. 

“Theon.”

Theon’s head snaps up at Robb’s voice, noticing he must’ve been quiet far too long. Worried blue eyes, the most important colour on earth, are watching him intently. 

“Yes, your Grace?”

“Stop it.” But Robb smiles as he gives Theon’s shoulder a gentle shove. “Are you alright? You’ve been… different.”

What can Theon answer to this? He’s right, he’s changed, Ramsay has changed him and he can never change back to being Theon Greyjoy again, not like he was, no matter if he has his able body back. 

Ramsay. Of course he’d been the first enemy Theon thought of. The mere thought of facing him again had been enough to throw him into a panic that had lasted nearly a whole night. Thank the Drowned God that he was alone then, cowering in his tent, repeating rhymes like a madman. 

It had passed. The shadow woman can’t have meant Ramsay. This life has started over at a point where Theon is nothing to Ramsay, except maybe a name he’s heard his father say. Not an enemy, not a pet, not his Reek. 

“Do you think your father would help? Give me his ships?”

Theon just shakes his head. “Never,” he whispers, “he’s… not a good man.”

Robb’s silence feels as if he’s confused, and Theon can’t repress a sour smile. After all the bragging he used to do, Ironborn this, Ironborn that… Now he has to sing a different song, without betraying his knowledge. 

“Thought about it,” he offers, “He wouldn’t. Send a raven. Try. But expect no positive reply.”

“Don’t you want to go?”

Theon turns to Robb then, finding him closer than he realised, his face only inches from Theon’s.

“Do you want me to go?” he asks, braving Robb’s gaze. “Shall I go?”

“No.”

The word is reluctant but firm, decisive, a hint of defiance behind it. Theon smiles.

“Good. I don’t want to go.” Years of pain and remorse make him able to say it. “I belong here. At your side.”

“Good,” Robb echoes and smiles, then sighs, the smile gliding off his face, leaving nothing behind but weariness. “I’m tired, Theon.” His head droops, slowly, until his forehead is resting against Theon’s shoulder. 

They haven’t been this close since they’ve left Winterfell, a long time for Robb, a longer time for Theon. Still he remembers it clearly, the companionable silence between them in the Godswood, the broken tower, the stables, wherever they sat together, drinking and talking, Robb’s shoulder touching his.

Carefully Theon winds his arm around Robb’s back, afraid to break this moment. His body is warm, it feels so alive that Theon has trouble comprehending how it could ever not be, how this man can ever not exist - it’s impossible. 

“Your Grace?”

The voice from outside is dispassionate and cold, and Theon feels his spine go rigid in horror. Robb moves back, driving a hand through his curls. He smiles ruefully. 

“Come in.”

Roose Bolton slips inside the tent, bowing curtly. Cold sweat breaks out all over Theon’s body. He hasn’t seen him yet, since he’d woken up in this life again, hasn’t thought of him even, so seeing him now is like a fist of ice to his stomach. He flees, barely reaching the nearby trees before he’s violently sick. 

***

“Theon will not leave for the Iron Islands, that is my final decision.” 

Robb looks at the men gathered around the table, one after the other. He does not look at Theon. Lady Stark is sitting to the side, her hands folded in her lap, a small smile playing around her lips. 

“I do trust Theon with my life,” Robb continues with a glance at her, “but I do not trust Balon Greyjoy. A raven will do as a messenger. Mother.” Lady Stark looks up. “Will you go and speak with Renly Baratheon?”

Slowly she nods. 

“Theon.” 

Theon looks up at Robb questioningly. 

“Since Ser Rodrik has returned to Winterfell, you will accompany my mother and secure her safe return. I don’t think we have anything to fear from Renly or the Tyrells, but… In these times you cannot tell friend from foe anymore.”

_ How right he is. _

_ *** _

Theon’s gaze flickers to the chest every other moment. It’s tied securely to Lady Stark’s horse. She hasn’t let it out of her sight since that awful little man had left her tent. She’s quiet, her face working as if she’s debating over something with herself. 

Now her hand absently wanders to stroke the chest. It’s small, and Theon cannot wrap his head around it, that this tiny thing contains what is left of the great Ned Stark. How he’d feared him, admired him, maybe even loved him. And he died.

Is there some place where he still exists? Can he see Theon, does he know of his second chance? Does he approve or would he rather have his son - and wife - with him, wherever he is? Theon does not believe he would. Ned Stark would want them to live. 

_ I’ll try. I’ll try so hard. I promise. _

***

The night after their return Robb comes to him in the middle of the night. Theon wasn’t sleeping, he’s been pondering the shadow woman’s words again, going over them in his head for what feels like the hundredth time. When Robb enters his tent, hushedly telling Grey Wind to stay outside, Theon sits up.

“I hope I didn’t wake you?” Robb asks, awkwardly hovering next to the tent’s entrance. “It’s just… I can’t sleep.”

“Me neither.” Theon gestures vaguely to a stool. “Won’t you sit down, your Grace?” Robb shoots him a withering glare. It makes Theon smile. “Sit down, you spoiled little brat.”

Robb’s mouth widens in the familiar grin, with two steps he’s at the bed and shoulders Theon to scoot over. Robb hugs his knees to his chest, looking so much like the boy he was barely a moment ago that Theon’s chest tightens. Too young, far too young to bear the crown, the responsibilities that come with it. So many enemies--

“Robb.” Theon can hear how urgent his voice sounds all of a sudden. “Robb, how do you know - how can you determine who is your worst enemy?”

Robb snorts. 

“Want me to write you a list? Basically every single person in the bloody Red Keep. But you know that. Why do you ask?”

He sounds genuinely curious.

“That’s not what I meant.” Theon shakes his head. “Of course I know  _ who  _ they are. I mean, per definition. What makes someone your enemy?”

“Oh.” 

Robb starts to chew on his thumbnail, a nasty habit from when he was a kid. Reflexively, Theon smacks Robb’s hand away from his mouth. Robb laughs, shoving his elbow against Theon’s ribs. 

“Well - I think I’d say someone who does bad things. I mean… Maybe… Maybe someone who takes things away from you. Who turns good things bad. Someone who hurts the people you love. That’s an enemy.”

Theon doesn’t answer, just sits on his cot with Robb at his side and stares into nothing. Who does bad things. Like slaughtering orphans. Who takes things away. Like seizing by force what had been his home for more than ten years. Turning good things bad. Like betraying the only one he’d ever loved, the only one who loved him. Hurting the people he loves. Robb.

“I’m going to bed, or else I fall asleep here.” Robb smiles sheepishly. “The now and always japes would get a lot worse.”

Theon doesn’t hear him, doesn’t see him leaving. 

_ It’s me. Gods help me, it’s always been me. _

***

“I still cannot believe she did that.” Bewildered, Robb stares at the empty pen that had contained the Kingslayer just hours before. “I cannot--”

“Sansa,” Theon answers. “Arya.” 

Robb looks at him, brow furrowed, blue eyes storming. “If it were your choice, would you set Jaime fucking Lannister free when you could have negotiated? Would you trust Cersei and her bastard son to hold their end of the deal?”

Theon shakes his head. Of course he wouldn’t. Robb sighs, deflating a little, his shoulders sagging, and suddenly he’s leaning onto Theon, as if for support, as if he’s too tired to stand upright any longer. He sniffles. 

“What’s wrong with you, Theon?”

_ Wrong?  _

“I’ve been meaning to ask you this for days, but I keep forgetting. This,” Robb says, rubbing his warm hand over Theon’s arm. “What’s this?”

“A tunic.”

“Really?” Robb’s voice sounds sarcastic. “I know it is a tunic. It’s just not like what you used to wear.”

Theon looks down onto his clothing. It’s a dark grey wool tunic, nothing fancy and sturdy enough to be worn outside for a longer time. Not pretty, but functional and warm. He cannot see what fault Robb might find with it, and his cluelessness must be visible on his face. Robb scowls.

“It’s… plain.” Theon still stares as Robb’s scowl deepens. “There’s nothing on it. No… you used to be covered in Krakens.”

Ah. Against his intention, Theon can’t repress a tight smile. “I think my father’s reply to your proposal has shown where I can stuff my krakens. Or the name Greyjoy.”

The Starks’ bitch, Father has called him in his reply to Robb.  _ Tell my son he’s not to set foot on the Islands as long as he’s nothing but the Starks’ bitch.  _ Theon had only shrugged when Robb had read him the letter, voice trembling in appal. It had hurt a little, a dull, muffled pain, like the memory of a slap. Nothing more.

“You haven’t worn any krakens before that,” Robb insists stubbornly. Mayhaps it helps him to concentrate on Theon’s clothing instead of his mother’s betrayal. “Actually, the last time I’ve seen one on you was when they proclaimed me king.”

“Haven’t been paying attention,” Theon says, shrugging as nonchalantly as he manages. “But good to know that someone does.”

When no reaction is forthcoming, Theon turns his head to the side. Robb is standing close, very close, a red tinge to his cheeks. He’s biting his lip - Theon looks down when something touches his hand. Robb’s gloved fingers are brushing his naked ones. Theon cannot bear to wear gloves anymore. 

Robb’s still not looking at him when he carefully hooks his pinkie with Theon’s. This has happened before, years ago, before Robb had even been a man grown. Theon had pulled his hand back then, and made a joke about Robb being too old for stuff like that. He’d been afraid. In no way could Ned Stark find his hostage and his heir holding hands. 

Theon is still afraid, not of him, not of his greatsword, neither existing anymore. He’s afraid of other things. What if he doesn’t want to let go anymore? What if he cannot hold on? What if Robb doesn’t want to hold on for longer than just this fleeting moment? 

_ I don’t care. Whatever he needs I’ll give him. _

Holding his breath, Theon tangles all five fingers with Robb’s, and Robb looks at him. His smile is soft, sweet and hopeful. Theon has seen the same smile before, many times, on many faces so different from Robb’s. Kyra, Bess, Wylla, Meg or Peg or something similar, they all have looked at him with the same expression. Theon had always looked away. Now he doesn’t.

***

Every night since Theon’s return Robb has come to see him, never staying long, never saying much. This night is different though. Instead of sitting down on Theon’s cot he keeps lingering near the tent flap, fiddling with his hands. He seems nervous. Maybe, Theon thinks, maybe he’s nervous before going into battle, on the morrow or the day after. 

“I want--” Robb sighs, biting his lip. “I wanted to - nevermind.”

Theon watches him leave again, puzzled by this unusual behaviour. Whatever Robb wanted to say, surely he could? He’s the King in the North, he can demand anything. Theon would give anything. He spends the rest of the night awake and wondering what it is, that Robb could want. 

***

“Ah, there he is. Hello, young man!”

Theon blinks at the face swimming before his eyes, slowly coming into focus. It’s a woman he doesn’t know, with a wide, relieved smile and tousled hair under some kind of headdress. 

“What--” Theon tries to sit up and is unceremoniously pushed down again. His left side hurts, a stinging pain shooting through it. His throat is dry and sore, and to his relief the woman offers him a cup of cool, delicious water. 

“You stay down, dear. I have not patched you up and nursed you through your fever to have you ruin all my efforts now.”

Theon leans back again. “How long? How long was I out? Where’s Robb - the king, where is he? Did we win? What happened, what--”

“Shshsh, calm down. Your king is well enough, that little Westerling girl is tending to his wounds. Of course he won, doesn’t he always?” The woman’s smile is almost motherly, proud as she speaks of Robb. “He’s a gorgeous lad, your king. No wonder the girl volunteered to care for him even though he’s just overpowered her father.”

Theon’s head is swirling. Robb, wounded. Robb, cared for by an enemy’s daughter. Robb, wounded? He’s failed him again, hasn’t been able to protect him once again. He groans, hiding his face in his hands. 

“Sleep some more, dear. When you are ready, I’ll have a nice, healthy broth for you. And maybe a visitor.”

Reluctantly soothed by the gentle voice, Theon closes his eyes. 

***

In his dreams, his visitor doesn’t wait until Theon wakes up on his own. He comes in the middle of the night, perching on Theon’s cot and rattling his foot. 

“Theon!! Are you awake?”

“I am now,” he groans, unaware of his surroundings. Surely it’ll be morning soon and he’ll have to help Lord Eddard. “What is it, Stark? Can’t sleep?”

“I fucked up, Theon.” The hand on Theon’s foot tightens as Robb keeps whispering to him urgently. “I’ve dishonoured her! I’ve… Father would be horrified. Theon, wake up! You have to tell me what to do now!”

“Sleep,” Theon mumbles, fumbling for a handful of clothing. When he’s snatched it he gives a yank, and Robb’s large, warm frame settles next to him. 

“But, Theon…”

“Tomorrow, Robb. I’m sure it’ll be better tomorrow.” 

***

The next time he wakes up it’s to a stab of pain in his side, the smell of broth somewhere nearby, and agitated voices coming from outside his tent. Theon tries to sit up, wincing at another flash of pain. His hand wanders down to the bandage covering his stomach. He doesn’t remember being wounded. A loud voice startles him. Robb. 

“I have to talk to Lord Greyjoy  _ alone. _ ” A pause, and Theon holds his breath. “Yes, I will. You don’t have to - alright, alright!”

Theon smiles. Whoever Robb is arguing with, they are giving him a hard time. He doesn’t sound very kingly right now, more like he did when he was a boy and got scolded by Old Nan for some mischief Theon had gotten him into. He also looks the part when he finally enters, a bowl of broth in his hands, chewing on his bottom lip and rolling his eyes. He doesn’t look at Theon when he sits down and shoves the bowl at him. 

“Eat or that horrible woman will rip my throat out.” He glances up. “Do you feel better? I was worried.”

Robb’s face is pale and tense, and Theon studies it while he slowly eats the broth. Didn’t the healer say he was wounded too? It’s worrying him, that Robb’s still not looking at him, the shadows under his eyes, the frown he sports. 

“Should you even be up?” Theon asks and puts the empty bowl aside. “I heard you’ve gotten the kingly treatment, getting nursed by a young wench and not that scary woman I got.” He tries to make his voice light and unconcerned. It’s surprisingly hard. 

“Jeyne,” Robb says slowly, “her name is Jeyne.”

Something in his voice has Theon look at him more sharply, a strange tightness in his chest. “Have you fallen in love?” he asks, relieved when it comes out teasingly. In his head it sounded accusatory. 

Robb laughs, a short, unamused bark. “I wish I had. It’d make everything so much easier.” He shakes his head. “She’s beautiful. And kind, she helped me. She didn’t have to, I’d just defeated her father and she still helped me. She’s… Theon.” The corners of his mouth droop. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You…” Theon buries his face in his hands, heaving a heavy sigh. “Stark, are you telling me you fucked her?”

“I lay with her, yes,” Robb mutters. He looks up. “I’ve dishonoured her. We’re not married, not even betrothed, I don’t love her.” He’s trembling, and Theon wants to reach out, console him, steady him. 

“What would Father say if he knew?” Robb whispers timidly. “What if there’s a… I don’t want to father a bastard.”

Ned Stark, Theon suspects, wouldn’t have a lot to say about fathering a bastard. As far as he knows he’s never spoken a word about Jon Snow’s mother. Maybe it was for Lady Stark’s benefit, maybe he was just ashamed. Robb is still looking at Theon with wide, desperate eyes. 

“I couldn’t subject a child to what Jon went through. I couldn’t leave Jeyne alone with a child, damaged goods if you will. No noble man will marry her when she has a bastard. Theon, I have to marry her.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Theon’s nearly shouting. “You promised to marry one of those Frey girls. You cannot make the Freys your enemies, Robb. Not now, not while we’re still at war.”

“I have to do it, Theon.” Robb’s face changes, becoming determined, his jaw set. “I won’t leave Jeyne to dishonour and poverty after all she’s done for me.”

“You say you don’t even love her!”

“True,” Robb says, “but neither do I love the Frey girl.”

“You don’t even know what love is!” Now Theon is really shouting, not even knowing why he’s so angry all of a sudden. Angry at Robb, angry at that Jeyne, angry at the unknown Frey wench. 

Robb stands up so suddenly Theon flinches. For one horrible moment he thinks Robb will punch him, but then all fight rushes out and his shoulders sag. 

“Of course I do. Do you?”

Theon watches him leave, unable to answer the question. 

***

“I’ll do it.”

“You’ll do what, Greyjoy?” 

Robb has been in an appalling mood all day, pacing around in his tent, snarling at everyone who dared to enter. Theon had used the time to think it over, to try and find a solution. And he’s found it.

“I’ll marry the girl. If she’s willing to take me.”

Robb spins around, disbelief plain on his face. “You? Marry Jeyne?”

“Yes.” Theon sighs. “I don’t care about her not being a maiden. I don’t care if she’s with child. It would be yours, yes. But no one would know. I’d raise it like your father raised us.” 

“You’d do that for me,” Robb says, voice blank now. “You’d marry a girl you don’t love so I’ll be free to keep my pact with the Freys.”

And marry a girl you don’t love, Theon thinks. The irony is wonderful. “I don’t care, I tell you,” he says out loud. “I doubt I’ll ever be Lord of Pyke after all that happened, so it doesn’t matter. No rock wife for me. Robb.” Theon takes a step, places a hand on Robb’s shoulder in a comforting gesture. “You cannot break your pact with Walder Frey. He is a dangerous man.”

Slowly Robb lifts his own hand, covering Theon’s with it. It’s like a shock, his touch now, warm and deliberate. He looks like he’s about to cry, but then he smiles. It’s a sad smile. 

“What about love, Theon? What if you fall in love some day and then you’re tied down to her and it’d be my fault…” Robb squeezes his hand, and Theon swallows. “I couldn’t do that to you, Theon.” 

And in this moment it finally happens. It’s been there so long, under the surface and never within reach, but now it’s there and in the open, plain as day. The feeling of Robb’s hand on his and the violence of the realisation nearly drown him, dragging him under and spitting him out again. Theon has given away his heart. Something he didn’t know he had to give. 

“You,” Theon gasps, only one word, but it’s enough. Robb understands, Theon can see it in his eyes, they widen, the blue darkening to a summer night’s sky. He doesn’t drop Theon’s hand, only holds on tighter as he opens his mouth, closing it again as the words fail to appear. They’re not necessary. Right now, both of them know the truth. 

Now and always. It makes a lot more sense, now that they know. 

They stare at each other for what feels like a lifetime, hearts beating fast in unison, throats dry and the air heavy around them. It’s Robb who breaks the silence, Robb who first finds his voice again. 

“You’d do it for me? You’d…”

“I’d do everything for you,” Theon hears himself say, wincing at the trite phrase. But it’s true. “If Jeyne is willing to take me, I’ll do it. For you. After all,” Theon smirks, lifting their entwined hands to his mouth and kissing Robb’s knuckles, “there’d be fucking hell to pay if we just fucked off to Dorne, Your Grace.”

***

She’s pretty, in a sweet way. It could be a lot worse. Her heart-shaped face is open and kind, her warm brown eyes sparkling with wit. 

“I’ve heard I have a suitor.” She smiles. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Theon Greyjoy.”

“It is?” Theon asks, slightly baffled. He definitely hasn’t expected that. “I mean, of course, my lady, it’s my pleasure. I came here to talk to you because-”

“Because your king cannot marry me, seeing as he is promised to one of Walder Frey’s daughters. Yes, I gathered as much from all the talking.” She rolls her eyes and Theon grins. “Let us get this over with as quickly as we can, my lord. Yes, thank you, I do accept your kind proposal and I’m sure we will be very happy together.” 

Theon stares at her, unable to stop his smile. “I… haven’t proposed anything yet, girl!”

Jeyne smiles at him wryly. “Then you better do it now, don’t you think?”

“Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?” Theon says stiffly. This is awkward, to say the least. Jeyne is not at all what he thought she would be. She’s quick, bright, beautiful, and kind enough to accept her fate without uttering a single word of complaint, or abuse against Robb. 

“I have two conditions, my lord.” Theon nods at Jeyne to continue, curious as to what those conditions may be. “One,” Jeyne says, voice firm and determined. “If I happen to be with child, it will be your son or daughter. And if it has red curls and blue eyes, you will treat it as your trueborn child.”

“Of course.” He’s told Robb already. This is no problem at all. “And your second condition?”

“Honesty.” Her face grows serious as she speaks. “I demand honesty between me and my husband. There may not be love… All my love is your king’s, Theon Greyjoy. But there has can be friendship, respect, and companionship. If we are honest.” She sighs. “And now tell me how long you have loved him already.”

***

“I dreamed I was dead,” Robb says, his thumb stroking the fur beneath his hand. “I dreamed I was dead and watching you. You were so sad. I wanted to make it rain for you, to wash it away, whatever it was. But I was dead.”

Theon’s hand is resting next to Robb’s, their fingers nearly touching. It’s not enough, and yet more than he ever thought he’d get, almost close enough to touch. They’re lying face to face, breathing the same air with every whispered sentence. 

Robb’s eyes fall shut, he smiles. One of his curls is falling into his forehead and he frowns, but makes no move to stroke it back. Theon could do it, there’s nothing wrong with a casual touch like this, they’re brothers to the world. Except that they’re not. 

And now that they know what they are to each other, every little touch, every syllable they say is laced with a different meaning that only they can read. An innocent touch becomes a wildfire, and Theon is not sure he would be able to stop once the seal is broken. 

He doesn’t break it. It wouldn’t be fair, on Robb, on the Starks, on the North. He’s Ned Stark’s son, he’s honourable, and Theon would never take this away from him. The weddings will be held in two days, both at The Twins, on Robb’s insistence. 

And Robb will be married. He’ll claim his wife, maybe sire a child on his wedding night, an heir - and then they will go off to war, leaving the wife behind. The wives. Theon’s wife. Jeyne. Jeyne, who loves Robb and pities Theon. Jeyne, who knows everything and is willing to take her part in this charade, for Robb. 

Robb’s breathing has become regular, quiet. He’s sleeping, a hint of colour in his too pale face now. Theon’s hand twitches, brushing against Robb’s. A tiny stab of pain, a spark, and Robb sighs, his hand turning over so that his palm is showing, open and trusting. 

Theon spends the night in a chair. 

***

“This is it, Stark.” Theon lifts his head to Robb, grinning weakly. “Do I look like a dashing groom?” 

Robb doesn’t reply, doesn’t look at Theon. His own garments are finer than Theon’s, and where Theon chose to wear his plain cloak, black and unadorned, the wolf on Robb’s shimmering white cloak is standing out proud and fierce. 

“I’m sure you look up to the occasion,” Robb finally murmurs, fiddling with his sword belt until slamming it to the ground angrily. “Seven hells! I’ll never get this thing on properly.” His back is turned to Theon, his shoulders trembling. “My hands are shaking too much.”

“Let me help you then, my lord.” Theon steps up behind Robb, bending down to pick up the discarded belt. “My hands aren’t shaking as much as yours. At least I know my bride’s face.”

Robb laughs, a short, harsh bark. “Do you really think I care at this point? The ugliest hag would make no difference to me. She can’t ever--” He turns around with a jolt, sending the belt cluttering down from Theon’s fingers. Robb is too close. 

“Don’t say it, Robb,” Theon asks, desperate to stop this right before it starts. One wrong word and he’ll fall to pieces, fall and take Robb down with him, the Freys, the Starks, the world be damned. But there is a glint in Robb’s eyes now, a hint of stubbornness to his tightly clenched jaw. The fight is started and lost in one blink of an eye. 

“She can’t ever satisfy me after knowing your face.”

The seal shatters, the breech is done, and when Robb’s mouth comes down to cover Theon’s he simply accepts. 

All those years. All those years and years of yearning, of never allowing himself to feel, are rendered meaningless in the course of one kiss. This is now, this is what it was meant to be and they can have it, they can take it, just for this one moment before vows and honour separate them forever. 

It’s not longer than a heartbeat, not much more than a brush of parted lips slipping against each other, but it’s all it takes to unravel everything. Theon moves away first, looking up at Robb, ready to make a joke to ease the tension. 

“We don’t have to do this, Theon.” Robb’s voice is urgent, a whisper, he already reaches for Theon again. “We can tell them to cancel everything, I don’t care what they think. I only care about this, us, fuck them all to the Seven Hells and back. I cannot give you up, Theon!”

Theon’s heart feels as if someone’s stopped it with their bare hand. Cold fear is creeping up his spine. This cannot happen. This is wrong. This is the surest way of fulfilling the fates all over again. He hasn’t seen it, has only had to listen to Ramsay describe it over and over again, what he’d heard from his father. 

Arrows obscenely sticking out of Robb’s body, agony on his face, the light in his eyes breaking. His head, his body, separated, Grey Wind’s mangled corpse, a display of ridicule and horrors. He cannot allow this to happen. 

So when Robb’s hand tangles in his tunic and pulls him close Theon doesn’t resist. One more time, one more kiss, one more memory before it’s all over. One more groan from Robb’s throat, one more touch of his hand in Theon’s hair, just this once more, and be done with it. 

“I can’t,” Theon whispers. The greatest sacrifice. He understands it now. And wishes he could have given his life instead. Nothing will do, nothing convince Robb but this. “I don’t love you enough.”

Over. 

Love. Friendship. Trust. But there’s still a war to fight, kingdoms to secure, a place to find in this world. There’s still so much life to be lived. And there is that thought, the one thought that makes Theon smile throughout Robb’s wedding vows, throughout the bedding ceremony, as Robb and his beautiful, blushing bride are accompanied to bed, as Theon retires to his own bride, as he spends the night crying out in agony in her arms - there’s still that one thought. An almost happiness.

Robb is alive. 

And maybe one day, when the war is over, when the winter has passed, when Robb is safe - maybe it will be the time to take back the lie he had to say, to tell Robb what has always been true. How he’s loved him all his fucking life, and will until the both of them are dust. 

***

“His heart must have given out. The state he’s in… it’s a miracle he’s survived this long.”

“His heart was stronger than you’d think. He came back to me. To support me. I can’t… Fuck!”

“Shall I call for the Sisters, my lady?”

“Fuck, no. He’s a Greyjoy. We worship the Drowned God. He should get - I’ll give him to the sea.”

“As you wish. Don’t cry for your brother, my lady. Look at his face. Whatever his last thought was, it must have been something wonderful.”

“I’m not crying. He looks happier than anytime I’ve seen him look when he was alive. I am  _ not  _ crying.”

“Fair winds, my lady. To you and your brother.”


End file.
